Program 77
by ICU81MI
Summary: UPDATED: Thought this would just be a one-off PWP, but then a friend was curious whether Derek slept through the events of Chapter 1 from the couch. So now it's looking like a trilogy. Sarah/Cam, then Derek/Cam.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Program 77

Rating: M for graphic language and scenes, as well as a bit of S/M stuff

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters and, given the success of the franchise, don't plan to be able to afford them.

"Finish it."

The words hung lightly in the air, and the pixilated image of the scantily-clad woman flickered from John's computer screen. Sighing, he buried his head in his hands and prepared to move on to the next available data stock. Knowing that he had almost certainly been moments away from witnessing robot-on-human sex, John couldn't decide whether he was upset at the abrupt cutaway or thankful for the apparently random outage—almost like a network television censor, John thought idly—that had seen fit to scramble that particular portion of Vick's visual memory.

In a room whose atmosphere was already thick with ideas best left unexplored, turning to see Cameron staring at him from his bed did nothing to improve the mood.

"You scared the hell outta me, how long have you been sitting there?"

Glancing down at her hands, Cameron's expression was typically inscrutable. It could, John mused, be embarrassment at having been "caught", at his accusatory tone. It was much more probable, of course, that the Terminator was simply multitasking again, responding to his queries while absorbed in her own actions—in this case, a slick layer of pink polish on her right index finger.

"A little while," Cameron responded nonchalantly. Breaking her attention from her nails, she again raised her eyes to John.

"That was effective. What he did." A nanosecond of a beat, noticeable only perhaps to the Terminator's internal system clock. "When he touched her lips."

"Effective," John muttered, as much to himself as to his companion. Where Cameron was going with this, he wasn't entirely sure. Whether he wanted her to continue, well… he was slightly more sure about that.

"I could see that she liked that," Cameron huskily went on. If John didn't know better, he would swear she was pressing her advantage. Then again, if she had been any other girl—hell, if she had been _a _girl, a real girl—John knew exactly where they would be headed from here. And, all things considered, it didn't seem like the worst idea. Not directly damaging, at any rate. At least he could know, could see what the machines were really capable of. It's like… reconnaissance, he rationalized. They can use deep infiltration to get to us, why shouldn't he return the favor? John glanced up at Cameron, his next words sticking in his throat.

"What are you doing?"

Wordlessly (or coyly?), Cameron presented her right hand, freshly coated in the obnoxious pink color she continued to swab from the bottle. Fair enough, John thought. Spelling things out was something he had strangely become accustomed to in the past weeks, it certainly wasn't going to hinder him now.

"No… when you say things like that. What are you doing?"

Cameron's reply slid automatically from her tongue, perhaps a little too easily for John's tastes.

"Just making conversation."

Somewhat disheartened, though by no means surprised, John pressed further.

"Since when do you just make conversation?"

"I don't know," Cameron replied honestly. "It just seems like something I should do."

Like something you should do, John thought. Cursing himself, he remembered that the supple form across from him, however attractive, was nothing more than a preprogrammed machine designed to follow a specific routine and use whatever means necessary to increase the likelihood of completion of its primary objective. If Cameron thought for a second that intercourse with John would form a stronger protective bond, he had no doubt she would have been parading around the house in fishnet stockings and a dog collar. In fact, a desire to be with John might well have explained her aversion to wearing much of anything when she knew she wouldn't have to leave the house. Struggling to contain his disgust at himself, he shot an accusatory look at Cameron before speaking again.

"Well, was having Morris impersonate me with that cop also something you thought you should do, no matter what happened to him?"

"Yes." The flatness and immediacy of Cameron's reply did nothing to cure John's mood, but her next words were at least sufficient to shock him into the present. "But it wasn't a cop. It was Cromartie."

"What?" John reeled as though he'd walked into a wall that a moment ago had been nothing but open air. "What?"

"He's going school to school looking for you. Trying to match your face." Whether the note of concern Cameron's voice contained was realistic or simply another well-executed program was irrelevant to John at the moment. "He's moved on, though. He won't go back there. I wouldn't."

For some reason, Cameron's last comment awakened something in John he realized he had been consciously avoiding until this point. He saw Cameron, sitting across from him, an ideal of teen beauty that a nice but hapless guy like Morris would do anything for. Would die for, he thought, chasing the idea from his mind just as quickly. He thought of Vick's wife, of what her eventual fate had to be. Even if Vick's mission had ended successfully, John doubted his wife would be okay with her husband standing in the closet with his shoulders slumped, unresponsive for the next four years. She had to die. Had probably already died, John surmised, and at the hands of one of the same… _things_ that now sat less than ten feet from him, absentmindedly finishing the rough edges of her newly painted BitchWhore Fuchsia nails. His contempt barely contained, John chuckled to himself.

"The only way I'm reassured by that is if I remember," he paused, choosing his next words carefully, "that in the core of your chip, you're just like him." Another thought flashed across John's mind—one that, if not necessarily as threatening as Cromartie, was certainly no less present. His gaze softened a fraction. "God, she'll move us so fast. You can not tell her, okay? Promise me."

"Hey." As if on cue, Sarah strode into the room. While she was never completely comfortable with the idea of her son being alone with one of them (and Derek's recent horror stories of reprogrammed Terminators gone bad had done nothing to assuage her fears), Sarah generally found that her objections to the arrangement did little more than harden John's resistance towards her "paranoia", pushing her even further away. Lately she had contented herself to hover just out of earshot, popping in at convenient intervals on some invented excuse or another. Today's came more easily than some. "Do I smell nail polish?" Another beat, this time noticeable to all in the room. Cameron wiggled the newly-polished fingers on her right hand as if the action excused the entire conversation that had preceded it. "What are you guys talking about?"

Without hesitation, Cameron rose to her feet. "Just making conversation," she intoned, brushing by Sarah on the way out of the room. Inclining her head towards John as she turned, she shot him what could only be described as a seductive wink, pausing half a moment before continuing down the hallway.

--

"Finish it."

The last time John had heard Vick speak those words, he was at least referring to a massive project to support the Los Angeles traffic infrastructure. This time, however, it sounded decidedly more… sinister. But then, John supposed that he wouldn't be lucky enough to have all the sex scenes blocked for him. It wasn't Fox News, after all.

Vick's wife knelt in front of him, her mouth and right hand wrapped firmly around his cock. Smiling coyly up at him, she slowed her rhythmic motion for a second. "As soon as I think you're ready," she grinned, recognizing the private joke the two of them had. Stifling an ironic chuckle, John watched the scene unfold before him. As much as he hated to admit it, the coupling definitely wasn't unarousing. Then again, it might be nothing special if his mother's anti-computer vehemence hadn't kept him from all but the most surreptitious of internet porn viewings. Suffice it to say that the normally understanding employees of the Apple store had a specific point where they drew the line, particularly on a Wednesday afternoon.

Glancing around to make sure he was unobserved, John slowly slid his hand down to his belt buckle. If he was going to watch every second of this thing for clues, he thought, he was certainly going to try to get SOMETHING out of it.

"It's alright, John."

Cameron's voice nearly made him leap out of his skin. Hurriedly turning around in the chair, his response to Cameron mimicked his earlier one in nearly every aspect.

"What the hell are you doing here? When did you get here?" he spat.

"I don't sleep," Cameron replied flatly. "If you want to masturbate, it's alright. Young men often masturbate while observing sexual acts." Cameron paused. "And many need to do so to reduce the likelihood of nocturnal emissions."

"Thanks, Dr. Ruth," John sneered, rebuckling his belt as he spoke. A pause hung between them, and neither seemed entirely willing to speak first. Finally, John sighed, a barely repressed smile creeping across his face.

"So… Terminators do… all that, then? I mean, full on… like… everything?"

"We are programmed in all aspects of human sexuality," Cameron replied. "While many of us have it as little more than a basic subroutine encompassed by anatomy, deep infiltration units are programmed with more specific commands and knowledge. They are programmed to understand basic sexual positions and routines, as well as some of the more popular variations. And," Cameron stopped mid-sentence. Her head cocked almost imperceptibly to the left before she continued. "there is a program. The phrase 'Execute Program 77', when spoken by a human, will engage a unique series of programming. From the point the program is executed, the unit becomes the sexual slave of the program's executor. At that point, even commands unfamiliar to a Terminator will be followed provided that they do not interfere with the primary objective and that they further the sexual interest of the master." Another pause. "It's remarkably simple to execute."

John took all the information in, consciously controlling his breathing as he thought. Cameron had, more or less, just offered herself to him, and no strings appeared to be attached. What he was to do with the offer would define their relationship for the long years to come. John swallowed hard, his brain fighting against every instinct the rest of his body had.

"Good to know. It's not that… it's probably best if you head into the kitchen now. I think I may have to… um… reduce the likelihood of nocturnal emissions."

A smile played across Cameron's face. Good to see she wasn't completely oblivious, John thought. "Of course, John. Sleep well."

As Cameron walked into the kitchen, Sarah slowly drew back into the shadows of her own room. Program 77, she repeated to herself. Program 77.

--

Dragging himself from his bed, John wearily pulled on a t-shirt and pants before heading into the kitchen. He had been up until nearly four in the morning cataloging the bulk of Vick's actions, and he was still no closer to discovering the initiation of Skynet's eyes and ears than he had been a week ago. Passing Derek on the couch, he managed a small smile. The all-American family, he thought to himself: hard-working single mother, brother and sister struggling to survive high school… crazy uncle laying on the couch in danger of bleeding out at any moment…

"Change of plans today," Sarah stated as she causally placed an English muffin and banana in front of her son. "I need The Little Engine That Could Destroy Humanity to check something out for me. The FBI might be too close to figuring out our connection to Enrique and Carlos."

"I though 'sick gets her on the radar'," John replied.

"It does, but it's unavoidable. Kids do get sick, John, especially kids with plates in their heads." She considered her next move carefully. "I can call in for you too, if you'd like. Actually, it might be better to have you stay here if you'll be out of her sight."

"That's fine, Mom," John answered. "I think I can manage a day without My Plastic Pal Who's Fun to Be With."

"I _am _fun to be with," Cameron chirped, an apparent non-sequitur that caused John and Sarah to break out into near-gales of hysterical laughter. Exchanging 'I love yous" with his mother, John slung his schoolbag over his shoulder and was out the door.

Eyeing Cameron from her boots to her simple tank top, Sarah cut the silence in the kitchen. "So," Sarah began, pacing around Cameron's perfectly poised teenage form, "you kept Vick's chip. You knew it should be destroyed, but you kept it anyhow. What can you tell me about what John can get out of it?"

"It contains detailed visual records of everything that the T-888 experienced. It's likely that his secondary protocols included something relevant to the future of Skynet. For instance, he formed a sexual relationship with the creator of a program that may become instrumental in Skynet's surveillance systems."

"A 'sexual relationship'," Sarah purred. "Is that a fact? I didn't know machines could bond with humans sexually."

"They can," Cameron instantly shot back. "Deep infiltration units are programmed to use all tactics, including sexual ones, to gain the trust of their targets."

"And even if they weren't a target, there might be other ways, correct? Like… Program 77?"

Sarah delighted in Cameron's visible pause. "In fact," Sarah continued, stepping close enough to Cameron to read every twitch and flicker behind her eyes, "I would be almost certain someone could probably use Program 77 even if they weren't originally targeted for termination. Wouldn't you say that's right?"

"Sarah," Cameron said, her normally atonal voice betraying a hint of what Sarah would even call… was it fear? From a machine? "Please."

"Execute Program 77," Sarah intoned, any trace of sympathy vanished from her voice. There was a flash behind Cameron's steel brown eyes, and the machine dropped to her knees, her hands clasped dutifully on the base of her neck.

"Status report," Sarah barked, clearly enjoying the sight this vantage point afforded her.

"As you command, Mistress," Cameron replied in a voice that could only be described as dripping with thinly-veiled disgust. Was this a genuine artificial intelligence, furious at its undoing yet unable to respond beyond basic programming, or merely a calculated string of code by a dutiful programmer, specifically designed to give the dominant a more realistic sensation of superiority? "Program 77 executed at 07:35:17 on 5 November 2007. In addition to my existing programming, I am now the sexual property of Sarah Jeanette Connor. I will adhere to any of her commands provided they violate neither the letter nor the spirit of my primary mission, the protection of John Connor."

The barest of pauses hung in the air before Cameron continued.

"There are no known counterprograms or failsafes for Program 77."

"Satisfactory… slut," Sarah smiled maliciously. Lowering her head, Cameron eyes winced tightly shut, and did not reopen. Did she know what Sarah was saying? What those words meant to humans, to the concept of dignity? "Now up. I want to see what kind of a present those bastards at Skynet can give me."

Cameron complied, her head still lowered, her hands still clasped. Sarah circled her, eyeing her prey hungrily. Ideally her son's protector would be six-two and bear a resemblance to some sort of Gregory Peck/George Clooney hybrid, but it had been so long. She wasn't adverse to being with women—her face flushed slightly as she remembered a particularly impulsive tryst with the mistress of an arms runner shortly after John was born—and she had to admit that, in terms of the specimen before her, she could do significantly worse. Besides, Sarah thought, with humans there was always a breaking point, always something she could say that would end things where they stood. But nothing like that existed for this girl—this machine, Sarah had to remind herself. Not a girl. Not someone she can feel for. She shook this last thought from her head with perhaps a more violent effort than was necessary under the circumstances.

"What are you, slut?" Simple, Sarah thought. She's a fucking robot. Just like the robots that killed Kyle, that tried to kill her and her son. Focus on that.

"I am a Terminator. Artificial intelligence, neural net processor CPU. Cybderdyne class TOK715, model 604. My primary mission is the protection of John Connor."

"And?" Sarah snapped.

Again, the slightest hesitation. "I am the property of my mistress, Sarah Connor."

A swift slap to Cameron's ample ass focused Sarah's thoughts as she felt the unyielding endoskeleton beneath. "And? What ARE you?"

"A… a slut. My mistress's slut," Cameron almost murmured.

"Good, slut," Sarah purred, picking up a newly sharpened kitchen knife with an almost bemused detachment. She and the machine stared at one another for nearly a minute before Sarah continued.

"It's funny, slut. Well, funny for me. For _humans_." She let the last hang in the air. "You can punch through solid brick. Stop a speeding car just by standing in its path. Snap my neck with a flick of your wrist." Sarah stepped closer to Cameron, flush with the knowledge of what was to come. "But you're not going to do any of those things."

"No, mistress?"

"No, slut. You're going to stand there, and realize what you are. Really _think_ about it. You're good at that, right? Thinking? You're the most advanced computer currently on the planet. You know more than any human ever will. You are smarter than anything we create can be. Deep in your programming, you are aware of the… inferiority… of humans and the necessity of their eradication. And, knowing all this," Sarah breathed, her lips almost touching Cameron's neck now, "you're going to stand there and strip for the sexual pleasure of your human mistress. Not because it is necessary, or because it will further your mission, but because you want nothing more than to make a human cunt wet by obeying. Like a good. Little. Metal. Whore."

Cameron glared back at her, a sight that Sarah relished even more. This programmed killing machine was close enough to flip her one-handed above her head and through the wall, and Sarah could see the entire scenario playing out behind Cameron's eyes. What happened, of course, was precisely what Sarah requested.

Acting with a preprogrammed knowledge, Cameron slowly slid her tank top up her arms and over her head, letting it flutter softly to the tile floor behind her. With a flick of her hand behind her, she unclasped her bra, exposing her breasts to her mistress and the cool late morning air. Though it was by no means the first time Sarah had seen them, the simple perfection of them still made her smile. How much research had gone into assessing the aesthetic sensibilities of men and women to determine what size would be the most pleasing to the most people? From Sarah's point of view, at least, they were… well, perfect. The thought of what she was about to do to them sent an illicit shudder through her body.

Cameron's hands paused only a second at her belt buckle before she unclasped it, her head lowered and her eyes fixed in pure hatred on Sarah. There had to be more to this than simple ones and zeroes, Sarah marveled as Cameron turned, simultaneously bending over while sliding her jeans to her ankles. The machine genuinely seemed to detest this subservient position, but was stripping like a seasoned professional. Was this merely the thought process that underlies all human "reprogramming", taken it its logical extreme, Sarah wondered? Does it only come out when pushed to these outer limits? Is that why some "go bad" when reprogrammed? An inner sense of moral outrage? Sarah's ontological musings were cut short as Cameron's fingers hooked themselves inside the elastic waistband of her silk green panties. Idly, Sarah wondered about the sexual predilections of the programmer who decided that a robot should understand the concept of matching underwear.

"Stop, whore."

"Mistress?"

"Not the panties. Not yet. I expect my property to put up a better show than that. Besides," Sarah leered, her voice thick with menace, "everybody knows that if you show a knife in Act I..."

She drew a small slanted line across Cameron's right breast, drawing an almost impossibly fine bead of blood.

"…you have to use it in Act III."

Flipping the handle towards the machine, Sarah stared into the coldness of Cameron's brown speckled iris.

"So use it, whore. Cut exactly what you are into that perfect skin. That little chip in your brain will make sure that you'll remember this."

Sarah leaned closer, sinking her teeth into her captive's earlobe.

"And you'll remember that a human told you to do it."

"Please," Cameron whimpered. That word again, Sarah frowned. Arousing as it could be in a given circumstance, it had a way of arresting one's thoughts when you knew a machine was using it. And that, given everything she knew about the machines, it really shouldn't. "Please, no."

Steadying herself, Sarah continued. "I started the 'w', whore. What you are is going to be on your chest, one way or the other. Finish yourself off before I reconsider my lenience and make it somewhere you'll have to explain it to John."

"Yes, mistress," Cameron immediately chirped back, a nearly imperceptible quaver in her voice. "Thank you for showing mercy to your metal whore, mistress."

The robot was as good as her word. In a little under a minute, the word 'whore' blazed brightly from her naked chest, the knife hanging suggestively in her hand.

"Satisfactory, mistress?"

"It'll do, slut," Sarah chuckled. "Time to test drive you. I want you to slide your panties to the floor. Do it slowly. I want enough time to look at you."

"Yes, mistress." Cameron began to comply, her panties slipping smoothly off the healthy curve where her ass met her legs and down her toned thighs. Cameron continued the seductive striptease, her eyes focused on Sarah, stopping only when she heard her mistress's voice again.

"You expect me to believe you came shaved?"

"Not originally, mistress. Analysis of human records from this time period show a preference of 58 percent for a completely shaved female pubic region among males age 14-32. As my programming indicated that John was the most likely candidate to execute Program 77, it made the most tactical sense to present myself in a manner that he would find sexually appealing."

Perfect, though Sarah. That robotic little speech did nothing more than help her remember that the little whore was just a machine. It's not a real woman who Sarah was humiliating, mutilating. Not really. Just a machine. Empty space, lines of code, points of light.

"You'll keep it, whore. From this moment on, remember it's not for John. It's for me. It'll be a reminder of precisely where your loyalties lie."

"Yes, mistress. Should I… keep stripping?"

"Of course," Sarah smiled. "Once those panties are off, though, I hope you know I have plans for them."

"They serve little purpose once removed," Cameron stated flatly, her head cocked towards Sarah.

Rolling her eyes, Sarah stepped purposefully over to Cameron, taking the time to savor every inch of the view before her. Wordlessly, the young woman handed her panties over to her mistress. Her head lowered, her shoulder-length hair stopping just above the scarlet word 'whore' already hardening on her chest, Cameron looked every inch the perfect submissive. Smirking, Sarah ran her hands slowly down Cameron's chest, noting the attention to detail in the stiffening nipple, and idly to the girl's already moist mound. Unable to help herself, Sarah slipped a finger inside the warmth between Cameron's legs, drawing back in surprise as the machine let a guttural moan escape her lips.

"I thought you couldn't feel anything," Sarah said, surprised if not necessarily displeased.

"Experiencing pain serves no purpose. My sensors register the damage. The information could be called pain, but there is rarely a need to act as though it affects me the way it affects humans. Pleasure is different. Infiltrator models need to act as human as possible. Popular rumors about the elusive nature of female pleasure aside, registering pleasure is a way of successfully gaining the trust of our targets and thus completing our mission. The most com-"hrmmpf

Cameron's further thoughts on the nuances of a Terminator's pleasure response was drowned behind a mass of green silk as Sarah crammed the damp wadded panties deep into her throat. So lovely, Sarah thought, not having to worry about suffocating the girl. That Colombian's whore… she was almost as submissive, but there had always been that fear, the fear of leaving a mark or making a scar that he would see. Sarah recalled one panicked afternoon where, following a particularly rough session, Alana had goaded her bodyguard into shoving her into a wall to explain a number of bruises. Of course, the arms runner had not taken the abuse of his property well, and the bodyguard's claims that he never thought he hit her _that_ hard echoed off the same courtyard walls as the two gunshots. Sarah and Alana were together only once after that, a fitful, almost tender coupling that left neither satisfied as they had once been.

But here was this pliant young thing—and _thing_ was certainly appropriate here—that Sarah never had to worry about being too rough with, that she could beat, degrade and spit on with little more than a smile from her submissive victim. Again, Sarah marveled. In a normal Terminator, an attempt to cram a gag in its mouth would at best have ended with missing fingers.

"Bend over the counter, whore. Those panties don't come out until my little whore comes. Do you know what 'come' means, metal slut?"

A definitive nod from Cameron.

"Are you programmed to come?"

A slight pause, and an identical nod.

"Then trust me," Sarah drawled, her hands running down the small of Cameron's back and swiping briefly between her ass cheeks, "you will."

Sarah's hands ran over the girl's perfect form, here and there drawing the occasional spasm from her slave. Her right hand snaked swiftly to Cameron's breast, rolling the hardening nipple between her moistened thumb and forefinger. As her right hand pinched, nails digging deep into Cameron's artificial flesh, her left twined its fingers in her prey's hair. Another moan, deeper than the first, oozed from behind the makeshift gag. Sarah's right hand slid over the machine's smooth stomach and came to rest outside the girl's glistening cunt. Glistening, Sarah thought. Even this detail… Kyle was delicate enough not to mention this… even now, in retrospect, she could hear the unspoken words in his practiced soliloquy… _sweat, bad breath…. _sexual response_… everything. _

"Do you like that, whore?"

No response.

"Tell me you like it, you little slut, or I swear I'll stop."

A beat, what seemed to Sarah like an eternity. A moan escaped from Cameron, followed by a defeated nod.

"That's what I thought," Sarah spat, her fingers sliding again into the increasingly familiar warmth of Cameron's pussy. Her left hand curled tightly around Cameron's neck, knowing she couldn't choke her but still wanting to, wanting to cause some kind of pain to the manifestation of something that had caused her so much. Her thumb worked furiously at Cameron's clit, the robot's breathing coming faster and faster as her fingers slid over the smooth wetness of her slave's mound.

"More?"

mmph

Sarah's pinky slid out of Cameron and came to rest outside her prey's puckered asshole. Normally lubrication would have been a courtesy, basically required, but with Cameron… well, what did Sarah care at this point, honestly? Making sure a Terminator was adequately prepared for rear entry seemed very much akin to polishing the shuffleboard deck on the Titanic. Still, Sarah thought, no reason she couldn't see whether or not this "humiliation subroutine" would hold.

"You know what it means when you take it in the ass, don't you, metal whore?"

mmmmmph

"It means you're a slut who's desperate for it, doesn't it? Isn't that what your files show? That it can be used as a means of humiliating a conquered people? And now you're responding to it. Because that's what you are. Conquered. Beaten. By a human. Again."

mmrrph

Snaking her pinky back into Cameron's dripping cunt, Sarah paused only for a second before sliding it back, deep into the girl's tightened asshole. Cameron moaned deeply into her panties again, arching her back against Sarah's lithe frame. Almost imperceptibly, Cameron began to slide her right hand off the countertop, down her thigh to where Sarah's hand was already busy between her legs. In an instant, Sarah's left hand had slammed her slave's head down on the counter with a swiftness that surprised them both.

"Not yet, whore," Sarah hissed. "When I want you to fuck yourself for my pleasure, you'll know." Her left hand lifted Cameron's face from the counter, spitting the words into the young girl's face. "Now keep your head up. I want to see what my little slut looks like when she comes."

Cameron kept her face pointed dutifully ahead, closing her eyes as Sarah's fingers resumed their work between her legs. As she slid her two fingers into Cameron's now dripping pussy, her pinky remained firmly planted in the girl's asshole, drawing garbled moans from behind the wad of silk in the machine's mouth. Sarah could feel Cameron's cunt, slick around her fingers, twitch in rhythm as her thumb busily rubbed the small button at the top of Cameron's mound. Circling Cameron's clit, Sarah pressed her advantage, squeezing it between her thumb and the hardness of Cameron's pubic bone. The girl's breaths were coming in short, ragged bursts, the muffled sounds of whimpering filling the kitchen. Finally, smoothly, Sarah curled her fingers up and outward. Alright, machine whore, Sarah thought. Let's see if they built you with one of these.

Sarah's questions were answered by the mechanical buckling of Cameron's knees and a brief, high pitched squeal escaping the gag. Cameron slumped to the floor, her mistress's fingers still trapped in her dripping holes. Sarah felt almost sure she could see tiny flickers, like explosions behind Cameron's cold brown eyes, but she dismissed the idea. Probably a trick of the light, she reasoned. They wouldn't manufacture her with something that would be an intentional defect to her programming—that particular quirk is just one of the things that makes us so uniquely human. Someone once said that the need for love is one of the most basic desires necessary for our happiness but one of the simplest to dupe. A superior intelligence would no doubt make sure that was one of the first defects they weeded out.

Smiling, Sarah repositioned herself and looked over at her prize. Cameron slumped against the counter, her legs splayed open to display her smooth, wet slit. Her chest rose and fell in shallow gasps, the word 'whore' still flaring brightly across her breasts. A glistening stream of drool oozed from her mouth where the silk gag had almost worked its way into the hollow of her throat. She was, in that moment, undeniably human property, and Sarah was going to ensure that she remembered it as often as possible.

"I'm going to assume you haven't been programmed to fake it, at least not that well," Sarah began. "That was a good runthrough of your basic functions. Take your panties out of your mouth now. You look pathetic."

"Yes, mistress." Cameron complied, placing the sodden wad in the ground in front of her.

"Now. On all fours."

"Mistress?"

"All fours. On your hands and knees." Sarah paused. "Like a dog."

Cameron acquiesced quickly. Seeing Cameron's supple form presenting herself for her "mistress"… it was almost too much for Sarah to take. Repressing the involuntary shudders that ran through her body—she's a _machine_, Sarah told herself, metal and tissue, nothing more—Sarah paused to consider her next move. Almost involuntarily, her right hand traced its way over her belly and into the waistband of her jeans. Moving past the thin layer of cotton over her already dampening slit, Sarah slid her fingers around her aching clit, steadying herself with her left hand on the kitchen counter. As her fingers slid deeper and deeper, Sarah's commands came in short bursts.

"Bark. Bark for me, you little slut," Sarah choked out, working her fingers faster and faster over her swollen mound, teasing the edge of her clit with her thumb before plunging her fingers into the moist warmth of her cunt. "Bark like a horny little bitch in heat."

Cameron's unflinching obedience nearly sent Sarah over the top. The sight of the girl and her perfectly-formed body, debasing herself for Sarah's pleasure—Sarah wanted nothing more than to collapse in a writhing heap on the kitchen floor and work her fingers inside herself with the fervor of her teenage years. She had plans for Cameron yet, though, and the temporary delay, agonizing though it may have been, would be worth what she was going to do to the girl before their time was over.

"That's a good dog. Now stay," Sarah commanded, striding purposefully into her bedroom and pausing only to retrieve an impressive-looking vibrator from her bottom drawer. Moving slowly over to her lover's prone form, she bent at the waist to draw the plastic monster along Cameron's upturned face.

"You know what this is?"

"A vibrator, mistress. Aesthetically, this particular model is designed to resemble a penis. Possibly to make the user more at ease with its intended use."

"Exactly right, little slut. You, of course, suffer from no such hang-ups."

"I don't understand. Why would I be concerned if it does or does not resemble a penis?"

"Because," Sarah purred, her eyes never leaving Cameron's as she ran the vibrator across the girl's lips and down the curve of her neck, "we want you to be absolutely comfortable with the toy you'll use to fuck your little cunt for your mistress."

"Thank you for explaining," Cameron replied. "Should I begin now?"

"Of course." Sarah slid her pants to her ankles, her damp slit hovering inches in front of Cameron's face. "And let's see if this 'Program 77' taught you the first thing about servicing your betters."

"The first lesson of Program 77 is a basic instruction in male and female sexual anatomy. Repetition of this aspect of the program would likely be tedious to you."

Propping herself up on her knees, Cameron plunged the quivering vibrator into herself, arching her back towards the ceiling in periodic spasms as she moved closer to her mistress. The last shred of Sarah's unease seemed to melt away with the heat of the young girl's head between her legs and the smoothness of her tongue against Sarah's swollen mound. Shuddering, Sarah braced herself against the counter with one hand and used the other to draw Cameron closer to the ache that throbbed between her legs. As Cameron's right hand slid the vibrator in and out of her already punished cunt, her left worked its way to Sarah's clit, alternating long strokes of her skilled fingers with a flick of the tongue that would draw bestial moans and a rhythmic bucking of her mistress's hips.

Twitching and grinding her nails into the back of her captive's head, Sarah silently cursed the programming that had allowed Cameron to understand the concept of teasing her lover. With each flick of Cameron's tongue that brought Sarah closer to the edge, there was a tentative stroke to the side of her thighs, reining her in just enough to keep her aching to come, squirming on the cusp of dissolving into a quivering pile on the floor of the kitchen. Would that all her paramours had the capability to detect the slightest change in heat or alterations in her heart rate, Sarah mused.

"Now, you little tease. Now. I need to come. Make me come," Sarah gasped, all pretense of control abandoned as Cameron's eager tongue went quickly about following her commands. The quick flicks were replaced with long, lapping strokes, Cameron's tongue running the length of Sarah's mound before drawing itself agonizingly over her mistress's aching clit. Light exploding behind her eyes, Sarah managed to cradle her lover's head as she inched closer to the brink.

"Come for me," she forced out. "Come when you make me."

If Cameron's programming had commanded a muffled, "yes, mistress", Sarah never heard it. Her world exploded as she came, everything but the sensations forgotten for a few brief seconds as she slid down the cabinets and rested on the floor. Her chest rising and falling, Sarah surveyed the scene in front of her as her world slowly came back into focus. Cameron, the vibrator still busily humming inside her, had curled herself into a comfortable resting position between Sarah's legs. The kitchen knife lay just out of the reach of Sarah's toes. The television buzzed from the other room, and a fruit fly lazily circled the plates and cups resting in the sink.

Groggily, wordlessly, Sarah grappled for her jeans. As fun as the notion (and execution) of her own perfect sex doll had been at its inception, the receding tide of her orgasm illuminated everything in a much harsher light. Seeing Cameron lying at her feet, twitching occasionally as the vibrator continued its work, Sarah didn't see the control she had wanted, the brief chance for revenge on the machines that had made her life hell. Instead, she saw a sadistic streak that had led her to fundamentally weaken her son's protector—to weaken the future's hope. Absently placing the knife in the sink with the rest of the dishes, Sarah searched for the words that would undo the afternoon's events.

"Cameron." The word felt strange, particularly given what she had been calling her only a moment ago. "Clean up. Get dressed. This never happened."

"Yes, mistress."

"And none of that," Sarah intoned, her voice shaking. "Sarah. I'm not your mistress."

"I can call you 'Sarah' if it's easier, Sarah. But you are my mistress. There are no known counterprograms or failsafes for Program 77."

"So I've heard," Sarah replied. "Sarah, then. And no more mention of Program 77. Ever."

And without another word, Sarah turned and strode from the room with as much surety as she could muster.

--

Standing in the doorway of John's darkened room, monitoring the rhythmic rise and fall of her charge's sleeping form, lights flashed busily behind Cameron's unblinking eyes.

TOK715, Model 604. Self Diagnostic.

5 November 2007. Program 77 Executed at 07:35:17.

Primary subroutine: Fear/humiliation/rage

Alternate subroutine (if necessary): Power bottom

Damage sustained:

slight bruising, lower left buttock

interior of mouth and throat, mild scraping

chest, multiple lacerations

slight tearing, walls of vagina and anus

Estimated time until full repair: 33 hours

Executor(s): Sarah Jeanette Connor

Field report: In accordance with programming, Program 77 deliberately referenced in presence of Sarah Jeanette Connor. Executor's responses and commands were predictable, if occasionally unique. Significant remorse and confusion on executor's part followed encounter. Likelihood of repetition slim. Estimate primary objective 8 percent easier to complete following program's execution. Executor's future shame projected as significant deterrent to interference with objectives.

Will attempt to engage subject Derek Reese in Program's operation in the future. Results too tenuous for projection.


	2. Chapter 2

"That was quite the demonstration the other morning, Metal."

Cameron froze.

"Morning, hell… well into the afternoon, wasn't it?" Derek continued. "Do you let yourself get fucked like a whore by anyone, or only by people whose sons you might someday kill?"

"You were on the couch," Cameron intoned. "Your presence was likely forgotten in my mistress's haste to enact Program 77."

"Forgotten by her, Metal. Not by you. When have you ever had a less than complete tactical readout of everyone and everything around you?"

"It's a legitimate rarity," Cameron admitted. There was a slight pause before she continued. "It has obviously occurred at least once before."

"Would that it had occurred a few days earlier," Derek shot back, shuffling back to the center of the living room, his eyes never leaving Cameron's.

"You are referring to our time together," Cameron continued, her head cocked slightly to the left. "It was my understanding at the time that you did not wish to have our encounter—"

Derek's hands were around Cameron's throat, his momentum carrying him forward more than any rational impulse. The part of him that knew he couldn't hurt this girl was lost somewhere in a haze of rage, his eyes burning as he slammed the surprised machine's form against the buckling living room wall. "You're going to shut the fuck up, Metal. Now"

"Or?" Cameron challenged, her eyes flickering with what Derek could only assume were the calculations involved in putting him on his back, through the wall or some combination of the two. Derek smiled inwardly as he soaked in the irony of the situation. No matter how many times he got the drop on his housemate—and he had done it at least three times that he could count so far—the machine's combat training invariably meant that all of his efforts would end with a metal boot on his throat. Slowly, evenly, he dropped his hands to his sides, his shoulders slumping as he exhaled.

"Just—try not to fuck anyone else in the near future. It's… distracting."

"Distraction is often the point of sexual encounters."

--

It was dark, Derek had allowed himself to remember that much. Even with the sodium light flickering on and off above his head, it was dark. Maybe that's why it took him a few minutes to realize that he wasn't alone. Over the faint tinkle of the as-yet-unexplained piano music, Derek could barely make out the rhythmic breathing of a huddled form in the corner. It was a girl, Derek marveled—not a woman, not a fighter, but a _girl_—naked, her hair straggled, the bruises evident even in the dim light. She couldn't be more than seventeen, Derek thought as he inched towards her. His heart sank a little with his last thought. Seventeen meant she never had a normal life, meant she's only grown up hiding in the ruins, scavenging for food. Not much older than he had been that day, the day the sky lit up and he found himself dragging Kyle towards the nearest cover he could find.

"Are… are you—"

"Don't come any closer," the girl screamed, her head turning into the corner as she curled herself into a shivering ball. "Not again, you said not again!"

The words hit Derek with the force of a train. What the hell would they want with… what purpose could it possibly serve? Why bother learning as much about their enemies as possible if their ultimate goal was simply their total annihilation? Tentatively, he reached out his hands, his palms facing up towards the girl's quivering form.

"Easy, ok, take it easy. I'm not one of them. I'm _not. _One. Of them_. _My name is Reese."

If the girl's head cocked itself almost imperceptibly to the left, Derek didn't notice in the dimly lit room. The sodium bulb buzzed overhead. "Reese. You broke out of Century Work Center with John Connor in 2021. You're a hero of the human resistance."

Hero, Derek chuckled to himself. Not very heroic, the years he'd spent crouched in burnt-out holes in the ground, never knowing whether his brother was alive or dead. "Yeah, different Reese. That was my brother. I never… I wasn't in the camps. Ever."

"I didn't know that Kyle Reese had a brother," the girl responded. A second's hesitation, then a marked change in the girl's tone. "I suppose that means that an escape is… improbable."

"To say the least," Derek sighed, slumping into the corner. As his eyes slowly adjusted, he took a moment to examine his fellow captive. Even in this state, naked, dirty, abused, he could see what she had been. There didn't seem to be a line or curve on her that looked out of place, and Derek couldn't help but notice how her almond eyes sparkled against the dingy wooden slats along the room's walls. And maybe the fact that she was naked wasn't the worst thing that could have happened to him that day… Derek shook the last thought from his brain as quickly as it had entered. She's a _kid_ for fuck's sake, he reminded himself, a scared kid who's been through god knows what, and you're sitting here thinking about—what? Fucking her? Nice, Derek thought. Heroic.

A silence hung between them, each eyeing the other with guarded reserve and measured glances. After what seemed like hours, Derek spoke, his throat cracking in the dry air.

"Derek. My name's Derek Reese." A pause, and a decidedly more determined voice. "And I'm going to get us out of here. All of us."

The girl seemed to consider this with the same attention one might give to a long division problem. "I guess I'm with you then… Derek. My name is Cameron."

--

"You need to accept that we have the same ultimate objective, Derek," Cameron was saying. "It would likely be detrimental to John's morale if I decided that your termination would increase my probability of success in that objective."

"Don't you fucking threaten me, Tin Lizzie," Derek growled, his hand running absentmindedly over his stitches.

"Technically speaking, I don't consider it to be a threat. It is factually correct that your termination would have a negative effect on John's psyche." She paused contemplatively. "Though it is equally probable that placing responsibility for your murder on a Skynet patrol team would harden his resolve and make him a superior soldier."

"Yeah, well, you know me, whatever I can do to help the cause," Derek shot back.

"I do know you," Cameron replied. "During the war you frequently disobeyed direct orders in attempts to destroy as much of the Skynet infrastructure as possible." Holding her gaze against Derek's, she continued. "It was theorized among many in the resistance, John included, that your earlier disregard for your personal safety was an attempt in some way to avenge what you perceived to be your brother's premature termination."

"_Don't_ mention my brother, Metal. You don't even get to say his name. Besides, I'm obviously not the only one who has a problem with orders. Remind me why you kept the chip from the Triple Eight again? Or what that bar of coltan was doing in the back of your closet? Or what purpose your little performance after the ballet lessons served?"

Cameron seemed to falter for a half-second before replying. "The purpose of my ballet practice is not currently important to your mission or John's survival." An almost sinister smile played briefly across her face. "I thought you would appreciate the choice of music."

--

"There has to be some reason for this music," Derek groaned. "Has it been playing since you've been here, or—"

"Yes," Cameron replied instantly. "It's Frederic Chopin. Nocturne in C-Sharp Minor." Derek's eyes narrowed slightly across the room and Cameron continued. "One of my first memories is music. Phoenix. We were hiding in the ruins of a Virgin Megastore. After the patrols would pass, we would listen to whatever we could find. Books on tape, classic rock, but it seemed like it always came back to classical, or jazz. It was… soothing. The headphones were sufficient to keep the noise undetected." A pause. "That's what we thought."

"Phoenix. Jesus," Derek muttered. "We heard about Phoenix. They say that the Ninety-Fourth and some of the survivors held off an entire column of 800s and twenty HKs for almost two days."

"It was only a few hours," Cameron intoned quietly. "Hours, not days. A few of us saw the inevitable outcome, chose not to remain. We could still hear them, across the desert."

"The desert?"

"Skynet patrols are historically inefficient covering large, unpopulated areas. We would raid farmhouses, Indian reservations, any place we could find nonperishable food or clean drinking water." Another pause. "I was seven."

Derek cleared his throat. "How… how did you even survive? How did you wind up here?"

"I didn't know where any of the bunkers were. I learned to travel at night, and to hide wherever I could. I stayed with others for as long as I could, listened to reports from Radio Free Earth before the machines disabled the broadcasts. They found me not far from this house, killed the boy traveling with me. I suppose they wanted to make sure to keep me alive for… for all this."

"All this?" Derek spat, his voice cracking in spite of himself. "All this?! What the _fuck_ could they POSSIBLY stand to gain from this? What do they want to know?" He slammed his fist against the wall, felt the dry skin on his knuckles crack open and the blood ooze into the wooden slats. "What the fuck do you fucking… _can openers_… have left to prove, huh?"

Cameron's voice, quiet, almost reverent, shook him from across the room. "Please, Derek. We don't know when they will return. There's something I need to ask you." Her eyes were lowered, her hair falling in tangled strings over the smooth lines of her face and lips. "I'm not sure how much longer I have. The machines have… they've used… everything. Before they… terminate me, I have to know…" Cameron trailed off. The next words came slowly, deliberately, as if chosen with a geometric precision. "Please. Please show me what it can be like." She inched slowly across the room, each word falling from her lips with a sense of import that suggested that nothing better could possibly come after. "Without the pain. Gently. Tenderly. Please." Her voice was a silken hiss in his ear, her lips hanging an angstrom from the nape of his neck. "Please, Derek Reese."

She drew back, her almond eyes locked on his. Her hand groped for his arm in the darkness.

"Kiss me before I die."

Derek's mouth was on hers before he was entirely aware of what he was doing. Against the cold stone of the basement floor, Cameron was warmer than he'd felt in years.

--

"I don't _appreciate_ any choices you make, Metal. I don't appreciate the fact you're here, I don't appreciate the amount of time you spend around John, and I goddamn well don't appreciate that you're apparently stockpiling spare parts to build another overgrown weed-whacker in the garage."

"There is a purpose to the retention of certain parts that is completely removed from the creation of another Terminator," Cameron replied flatly. "If I were to become damaged in some way, repairs would be greatly simplified with sufficient materials."

"Well, we wouldn't want _that_ to happen, would we, Metal? After all," Derek snarled, "how would Sarah get off if you weren't around?"

"My mistress's orgasms are not my primary objective. My mission is the protection of John Connor."

"I can protect him just fine, thanks."

Cameron's flat, accusatory stare tore through Derek with the force of a rifle. "In terms of pure probability, that is likely not the case." A noticeable beat. "My limited experience has shown you to be incapable of protecting even yourself."

--

Derek's fingers traced their way slowly across the small of Cameron's back, snaking around to the smooth flesh of her navel. His voice pierced the electronic hum of the flickering bulb overhead.

"Are… are you sure about this? I mean, I don't have to…"

"Please, Derek," Cameron moaned, her breath already coming in deep gasps. "Please. I need you."

"It's just… I've only been with one person before. She… we were close, once. I don't want to hurt you. I don't want you to get hurt."

"Just touch me." In the near darkness, Cameron's eyes held a frantic urgency. Her hand grabbed his, guiding it down to the warmth between her legs. "Touch me. Here."

Derek's finger slid inside Cameron, drawing a shudder from the girl as he dipped his head to the valley between her breasts. His tongue traced fire circles around her already hard nipples, his right hand working slowly in and out of her in a quickening rhythm. He could feel his cock stiffen with every stroke of his tongue over her perfectly formed breasts, could feel the spasms of his lover's twitching cunt around his fingers. His thumb lazily circled Cameron's clit and she groaned in frustration, arching her hips from the floor to meet his hand, driving Derek's fingers deeper inside herself. Derek's tongue slid down the length of her belly, his eyes locked with hers.

"Please," Cameron nodded. She drew her right hand to her glistening pussy, dipping her fingers to join Derek's before brushing them lightly against his lips. "I want you to taste me."

The flat of Derek's tongue curled once around Cameron's navel before continuing down. Gliding over the mound of her outer lips, Derek lowered himself until Cameron's thighs rested on his shoulders, exposing the perfectly formed curves of her ass as he began to lap directly at her swollen clit. The stuttering, hesitant flicks of his tongue would draw Cameron's sopping cunt to his lips, her only communication a ragged moan. Pausing to dip his fingers into Cameron, Derek's tongue moved slowly over her moist lips and down to her perineum. Encouraged by the frantic bucking of the girl's hips, he grazed his tongue a split-second across the puckered ring of her anus before returning northward to engulf her clit in the warmth of his mouth.

"More, please," Cameron gasped, her legs twitching, her fingers curling frantically through the wisps of Derek's hair. "I need to come. I need to come for you."

Derek obliged, sucking the young girl's clit in earnest, alternating swift laps of his tongue with long, drawn strokes against the sides of her thighs. His fingers twisted inside Cameron, curling against the inside of her navel. The gesture did not go unappreciated. Derek could feel Cameron's cunt pulse and contract around his fingers, her nails digging bloody grooves into his back and shoulders. A guttural scream shook the walls of the room as Cameron exploded around his hand, arching her back and hips into a pose yoga gurus would have envied. Idly, Derek wondered what his comrades in the upper floors would think was going on in the basement—interrogation, probably. Whatever he had stumbled onto with Cameron was definitely not in the playbook. Slowing the motion of his fingers and tongue, Derek lowered Cameron's still quivering form to the floor, sliding his hand from under her back as her eyes slowly rolled back to the front of her head and a satisfied smile crept into the corners of her cheeks.

"Derek." Cameron's voice, a million miles away. "Thank you." Propping herself on her elbows, her legs still splayed apart, Cameron pressed her advantage. "Now, please. Make love to me."

The throbbing below Derek's waist needed no further encouragement. Any moral concerns or worries about discovery, decorum, his safety—all of them had dissipated with Cameron's scream and the gasps of his name into the basement's still air. He was on her in an instant, the head of his cock poised just inside her moistened lips. Derek's eyes locked with hers, a split second, a barely-detected nod from Cameron, and he was inside her, the world blurring in the golden brown sparkle of Cameron's eyes. He was not teasing this girl, not now, he was fucking her, tenderly, yes, but with a definitive sense of urgency. Cameron's body tightened with every thrust, the grit of the basement's floor scraping her back, the tangled threads of her hair matting between Derek's fingers. His mouth roamed the contours of her face down to her breasts, grazing her nipples and her lips in a frenzied blur as if he could consume her, drink her into himself. His mouth was on her lips, his hand on her throat, his cock in her cunt. Their eyes held each other's again, unflinching.

"Derek," Cameron breathed, short whimpers seeping from the corners of her mouth. "You can save me. You can save us all." She shuddered, another orgasm threatening to ripple from her deepest parts. "Let me help you."

"I will," Derek gasped, his thrusts driving deeper and deeper into the tightness of Cameron's mound. "Anything. Anything I can do."

"Perfect," Cameron purred, her back arched, the familiar warmth tingling its way out from her core and into the inches of her extremities. "For now, though…" Her voice trailed off quietly, a small smile spreading over her upturned lips. "Don't you dare stop fucking me."

--

A glass soared inches from Cameron's head, shattering against the far wall of the living room.

"The fuck you mean by that, Metal?" Silence. "I said, what the _fuck_ do—"

"Your first inquiry was perceived adequately," Cameron replied. "As for what I meant, I was merely recalling fact. Maybe we should ask the remains of the Hundred and Thirty-Second if you are capable of protecting them." Cameron let her last words hang, her eyes fixed on Derek as surely as they had been in the darkened basement. "Finding a sufficient number of them may prove difficult."

--

Derek lay on the floor, his back to the doorway, Cameron's shivering form curled into his arms. The music had stopped. He felt unsure if it had been an hour or a week since he withdrew from her for the final time.

"Derek." He marveled at how it still snapped him to attention, the simple elegance and plaintive tone she oozed into every repetition of his name. "I need to ask you something."

He allowed a grin to spread across his face, his hand sliding over her left breast and down to the bowl of her navel. "I can't imagine you want to do it again."

Derek could hear the smile in her reply. "No. I just wanted to know something. When we get out… when we're free of this place… where will we go? Is your unit still around?"

Tensing his chest involuntarily, Derek sighed. "We have a bunker, the One-Thirty-Second. More of a whole underground… community, really, not just a military outpost. If you're right about where this house is, it's about a day's walk from here, near where the old 405 met the Reagan. There are women there, fighters, and children. You'll be safe. The guys upstairs should have managed to chip away enough of the floor that they can get loose and take the 600s, as long as—"

Derek stopped in mid-sentence, a look of horrified comprehension spilling across his face. Cameron had risen immediately and strode towards the door with an unflinching purpose that Derek had not imagined her capable of. "Remove the lock from the door," Cameron was saying to the machines that Derek now knew with a sickening certainty were waiting immediately beyond the wall. "Send a contingent to grid coordinates 34.279, -118.4688. Thirty should be sufficient. The prisoner should be returned to the upper floors as soon as is convenient."

The door opened, flooding the dank room with the comparatively bright lights from the hallway's halogen bulbs. Squinting, groping for the source of the light, Derek scrambled for the door. His nails found the flesh of Cameron's back and she threw him from her like a spare piece of lint. He slammed into the dampened planks, felt a rib crack as he slid down the deteriorating wall behind him. In the haze of light surrounding his former lover, her face was illuminated. It was not, Derek would swear to this day, the stoic face of the machines that he had come to expect. He had seen his share of infiltrator units, and they were becoming increasingly adept at mimicking human emotions, but he had never seen a machine give him that face: for all the world, Cameron looked as though she was ashamed of what she had just done.

--

"You watch your mouth, Robbie, or finding a sufficient number of pieces of you is going to prove extremely difficult," Derek growled.

"You continue to threaten me despite your knowledge that you cannot put your claims into action."

"And you continue to let Sarah fuck you despite her knowledge that you're a just a Talking Tammy doll with a cunt," Derek shot back.

Cameron paused, her head cocked characteristically to the left. "It is interesting to observe your reactions. Every mention of sexual relations raises your pulse and body temperature significantly. It is possible you—"

"Jesus, Metal, will you _shut the fuck up_?" Derek sighed, exasperation etched in every line of his face.

"I am not programmed to obey your orders."

"No, why would you be? I didn't execute your…"

A malicious smirk blossomed on Derek's face. "Let's assume for a moment that more than one person decided to use your… unique programming. What are the parameters in place for something like that?"

Cameron appeared to run through a series of calculations, hesitating a millisecond before replying. "In such situations, the role of dominant would belong to the individual who executed the program most recently in time. All other commands by the previous executor would become null and void and their position as dominant would cease."

"And since Sarah seems to have made it clear that she won't be 'logging on' anytime soon, she probably wouldn't even notice if a shift occurred," Derek mused.

And then he saw it. Not shame, not guilt, but fear. Genuine fear was reaching out from somewhere in Cameron's CPU, tattooing itself across the normally smooth contours of her face. Derek couldn't decide if he was more elated that he had finally discovered a way to handle Cameron or terrified that this machine seemed to be developing salient emotions. For the moment, at least, he decided to settle on the former.

"Execute Program 77", Derek blurted, looking sadistically down at the girl who now knelt on the floor before him, her hands intertwined at the base of her neck. The machine's immediate submission was nothing if not an impressive display of programming, Derek considered. "Now get into John's room, and bend over the bed."

Cameron complied, padding into the bedroom with Derek on her heels. Face down on the balled-up covers, Cameron's arms spread to the side, Derek hesitated for the briefest of seconds. Machine, he reminded himself. Lying fucking machine bitch.

"Take your pants off, you little whore," Derek ordered, the knowledge of what he was about to do filling him with a mixture of excitement and revulsion. Cameron slid her jeans to the floor, her arms returning to the bed in a single fluid movement. Derek's hands were on the small of his back, roughly pulling her panties to the side and forcing them down her knees. "On your back, Metal. And spread for me." Cameron reacted to the order with a detached indifference, rotating to place her head against the wall and her legs balanced just on the edge of the bed. Derek leaned menacingly over his prey, his lips poised an inch above her upturned mouth.

"Now," Derek drawled, unable to contain the sadistic grin spreading into every corner of his face. "Keep very quiet…" He turned suddenly, walking determinedly out of the room, pausing only to throw a look over his shoulder as he braced himself in the doorway.

"And go fuck yourself."

--

"Cam?" John called, plopping his backpack down beside the living room couch and a still-sleeping Derek. "You around?"

Heading down the hallway to the bathroom, John continued. "I'm not sure if hanging out with Morris is going to keep being interesting if you don't show up from time to time. We were at the mall for six hours and all he did was ask me about you. To get rid of him for a while, I told him I needed to get you some of that perfume you like from Victoria's Secret. Not only did he come into the store and watch me buy it, he giggled through lunch. By the way, you like Victoria's Secret perfume now. Also, you like aquamarines and lilies."

John turned from the sink, flipping the bathroom light off before moving towards the bedroom. "People usually give each other gifts when they like one another, so don't be surprised if you get a bouquet… of…"

John had stopped in mid-sentence, the sight before him rendering him temporarily at a loss for words. Cameron, his protector, was splayed out on the bed in front of him, her right hand working furiously between her legs, her left lost under her shirt but very clearly busy with her nipples. If she noticed he was there, she gave no indication.

Of the thousands of reactions running through John's head, the one that came most naturally was the smart-ass remark. "So, I don't care if you don't sleep, but if this keeps up, I'm going to have to tell Mom to cancel Cinemax."

The immediacy of John's voice seemed to jar something loose in Cameron. Though her hands continued as if nothing had happened, her eyes refocused, locking themselves with John's. When she spoke, the only thing John could hear was pure terror.

"John," she gasped, her hand working her clit and her breath coming in tiny whispers. "John, please. Derek… unnnh… master… executed the program. Program 77. My master… hmmmmnnnnh… he made me do this."

"And… he didn't… do anything to you? It's just you?"

"He knew… knew I would have to keep doing it until… something… else stopped me."

"Jesus, Cam," John breathed. "What the hell did he do to you?"

A single tear welled in the corner of Cameron's right eye. Whether it was a condition of the program or an actual reaction was surprisingly irrelevant to John. All he could see was what was happening to her, what she was doing to herself. How it hurt her. "I'm… a slut. He showed me what a slut I am." The tear spilled from her eye, others following in a stuttered procession. "I'm a whore who needs her master's cock."

And John Connor wondered, not for the first time, not for the last, precisely why humanity was worth saving.

"Ok," John sighed, his hands dragging slowly across the length of his face, "how do I fix this?"

"If… if you were in danger, my… primary… objective… would override…." The last half of Cameron's sentence was drowned in a cascade of moans and tears as another orgasm tore through her body.

"Yeah…" John considered, surveying the scene in front of him, "don't think I can find a way to put myself in mortal danger in front of a masturbating ro… cybernetic organism. Anything else?"

"The program. Program… 77. If you execute it… all previous… commands… would be overridden."

"So." John stated, his words coming with a restrained deliberateness. "Let's just make sure I understand. To stop you from masturbating yourself into oblivion, I need to take advantage of a program that basically turns you into my sex slave, and then be trusted not to abuse the power myself in a way that would endanger your primary objective."

"Correct," Cameron gasped.

"And I suppose pointing out that this is the stuff of, say, bad fan-fiction doesn't mean that there will magically be another way."

"Supposedly... ironic… meta-analysis… is… a frequent refuge of mediocre writers," Cameron managed to force out, her fingers circling her damp clit with a renewed vigor.

"So I've noticed," John groaned, rolling his eyes. "Alright. First, we're going to put a stop to this. Execute Program 77."

John stood motionless as a wave of visible relief passed over the young girl's half-clothed form. Wordlessly, Cameron slid from the bed, clasping her hands on her neck as she knelt in front of her savior. "Thank you, master." Cameron gazed up at John, her face still glistening with tears. "Thank you." The briefest of pauses. "You… implied there would be something else, master?"

"Yes. Yes there will," John said, as much to himself as to Cameron. "I've tried every way I know to fight this, Cam. The first time you offered yourself to me, when we were watching Vick and his wife, I thought I could ignore it, let it go away." Distractedly, he opened the drawer next to his bed, fishing out a roll of duct tape. "So I just… pretended you never said anything. And now I have what amounts to open warfare between two people I care about."

"Yes, master," Cameron replied, her eyes never leaving the floor in front of her.

"Let me finish, Cameron," John continued. "Open warfare. And I can't have that. Not from Derek, even if he won't admit it, but definitely not from you." He stretched the tape taut, ripping a piece from the roll before tossing it on the bed. "You're going to be punished. You're going to learn to listen to me. I am John Connor, I am the future leader of the human resistance, and you _will_ listen to me, now, not to some future version of me."

John slapped the tape roughly over his captive's mouth. The fear had returned to Cameron's eyes, her lids trembling as she fixed her gaze on her master's feet.

"And no one will hear you scream while you learn."


End file.
